Something New
by KRenee
Summary: Nick had expected to die the moment he realized he'd fallen out of the chopper. He didn't though. Apparently, he was caught in midair by some little brat named "Dal." That would've been a good thing if Dal wasn't a Hunter. It would've been an even better thing if Dal would leave him alone. Apparently, "go away" is too much to ask for in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.
1. Something New

_**Something New.**_

It happened too fast for him to keep up.

One moment, they'd been content, tired, and worn out from day of battle. But they'd been rescued. Safe, or something like that. Nick had been stiff with distrust, of course – _"if anyone had known what they were doing, we'd never have been in this mess in the first place!"_ – but they'd been safe from the Infected. Safe from danger. Rochelle had been drifting off into slumber, despite the amazing amount of racket from the helicopter. Ellis was just dancing in his seat with giddiness ("A helicopter? Cool!"), and Coach had been settled and thanking God for mercy.

It had been a growl that had brought his attention. Ellis had been gazing out the side with wide eyes at the forestry below, Coach's eyes were closed, Rochelle was too half-conscious to notice anything. Nick looks towards the cockpit, eyes widening when he saw their pilot clambering out with wild eyes and a snarl contorting his expression. As they'd only had the one, inexperienced guy picking them up, Nick had been able to sneak his pistol onboard without much trouble. He hadn't even had to take it off his person.

Ellis' head lifted at the sound of an Infected snarl growing closer, and he twisted in his seat to investigate, eyes wide and horrified. Coach's eyes snapped open and he grabbed Rochelle's arm to rouse her. The helicopter had started swaying just as Nick had stood up, taking aim and killing the "zombie" without a second thought. Ellis gaped at him, horrified – _"Nick, you shot the __**pilot!**__"_

The hillbilly had already been about to unbuckle himself and get up as well, but Nick snarled at him to stay put just as the flying mechanism jerked violently. He lost his footing, his head slamming into vibrating metal and the world spinning away into darkness.

"_NICK!_"

…

The landing had been painfully harsh, chopper blades snapping loudly and flying through trees as they spun and skidded to a stop, the wet ground beneath them soaked enough to keep the gasoline-filled tank beneath them from igniting. For a long moment, they were sitting in shaken silence. Ellis could hear Coach's rattled nerves, he could practically feel Rochelle's heartbeat even though he wasn't sitting next to her. He couldn't even muster up his sense of humor to lighten the mood.

After taking a moment to regain his sense, he all but tore off the belts holding him in place and stumbled out of the chopper, green eyes frantically searching the area. He could hear Rochelle and Coach fumbling around behind him, and if it hadn't been for the fact that he wasn't armed, Ellis would've gladly risked alerting all the nearby Infected and started cawing for Nick.

He'd seen the man's head connect with the side of the helicopter moments before he'd lost his footing and fell right out of the thing altogether. If the chopper hadn't chosen that moment to start spinning in midair, he'd probably have thrown himself out after the conman. As it was, he'd just about yelled himself hoarse when he'd seen the fall. There was – even in his naturally optimistic mind – _no way_ Nick could've survived that fall. They 'd been flying above the trees, and it wasn't like they could count on there being a nicely sized, _very_ durable trampoline to be conveniently place right where the pessimistic man had landed. _No way._

But still, he couldn't bring himself to imagine that Nick was _dead_.

Someone grabbed his arm roughly and turned him around, startling him out of his wits. Oh, right, he was still accompanied by two other survivors.

"We got to move," Coach was no-nonsense, "We ain't armed and that racket probably just attracted everythin' in a hundred mile radius."

Ellis' lips parted, but no sound came out. He nodded mutely, swallowing hard as he suddenly remembered that, yes, they were in massive amounts of danger. Again. They paused for just a moment to scan the trees, looking for anything – lights, signs of previous life… anything to point them in the direction of shelter. There wasn't anything, though. Rochelle glanced to the sky, looking for the direction of the setting sun.

She hiccuped slightly around her words as she spoke, pointing into the dimming forest, "West is that way," she forced out, lowering her hand and smoothing out her shirt briefly, trying to keep herself calm after what'd just happened, "We go f-far enough that way, we're bound to find _something_…"

Coach nodded, "Good enough for me," he agreed, glancing at Ellis. The brunette nodded again, still wrapped up in his own thoughts. Nick? _Dead_? No, that… that couldn't be right. He had half a mind to tell them they should head in the direction they'd flown from; maybe they could find the conman. Despite Coach's reservations about traveling with something like Nick, the lot of them had become pretty close. Sure, Nick was still a pessimist and never passed up an opportunity to tell Ellis to _shut up_, or to insult the Midnight Riders, or to flirt shamelessly with Rochelle in the worst of moments, he was still one of them.

Losing him made Ellis feel impossibly _mortal_ and he didn't like it. He'd never been so painfully aware of the beating, fragile heart in his chest, or the lungs that could be filled with blood, or the bones that cracked all too easily, or the _danger_ that surrounded his every living moment.

He couldn't guarantee that he was going to live, and if anything in this rotten world scared him, it was that particular piece of knowledge.

…

God only knew where he was in the world.

Actually, scratch that. God probably didn't know either.

Despite falling out of a helicopter, Nick didn't feel particularly injured. His throbbing head was currently the only part of him that hurt in any way. Perhaps he'd landed on a nicely sized, _very_ durable trampoline that had been conveniently placed right where he'd landed. Not likely, but entirely possible. He sucked in a deep breath, slowly cracking his eyes open. It was dark, wherever he was, and quiet. He couldn't see the sky, and upon closer inspection he discovered that he was actually under a roof.

He honestly had no interest in aggravating his headache, but he wanted to know where he was and what had happened. So, after a moment's deliberation, he carefully began lifting himself up. Once in a seated position, he looked around the shelter and swallowed to wet his throat. It was too dark to really see anything, but he was able to pick out a few key objects – a relatively shredded sofa, a broken wood stove, a table with two chairs, the third smashed up in the corner of the room. Whoever had brought him here, they appeared to have tried to "tidy up" by shoving things into corners. But that person was nowhere in sight. Perhaps they'd gone scavenging or something.

Whatever the case may be, Nick didn't like the deep claw marks he spotted on the walls. Almost like someone had been sharpening their claws on it, but way too large and high up to be the work of a cat. And he was pretty sure there weren't any tigers around the area. At least, none that would rescue him from certain death.

He cleared his throat, testing the surroundings. Nothing around him stirred or started at the sound. He was alone, at least for now. Slowly, Nick swung his legs to the side, standing up from the musty, uncomfortable mattress-like object he'd been laying on. He worked his way over to the nearest window and peered outside. It was quiet out there, but way too dark for him to be traveling alone.

_And unarmed,_ the conman reminded himself in mild frustration, patting his hip just to be sure. He was unarmed and alone. Unless whoever rescued him from certain death was willing to hand over a gun or two from wherever, he wouldn't be able to even try finding that chopper. He had no idea if the others were alive, but he wasn't about to risk his own life to try finding them when he had no idea which way that helicopter had even gone and the woods around him were pretty much pitch black. He'd wait until morning. Surely by then that person would be back and they could have a calm discussion about the immediate future.

Nick muttered a curse to himself. If they had survived, they would probably assume he was dead and start working their way west without him. His chances of catching up were low, but perhaps they had also stopped for the night. Even if they had, though, it was going to take him time to catch up with them. What if they found a car, or got a ride from another chopper? He didn't exactly _like_ being stuck with three strangers, but he didn't want to be left out in the apocalypse by himself either.

Clicking his tongue agitatedly, he stepped over to the uncomfortable mattress he'd woken up on. He wasn't going to get much sleep tonight, but he should at least try. It'd do him no good to be tired the following day. After packing the moldy blankets against the wall, he leaned back into them and closed his eyes. He was anything but comfortable, but he wanted to be in a position to see anyone (or any_thing_) that came into the one-room house.

Nick sat there for at least two hours before he decided to abandon waiting up for his rescuer.

_Or captor._

He shuddered at the thought and sank back against the smelly cushioning behind him. Once he'd decided not to wait, sleep found him easily. He didn't wake through the night, and Nick couldn't help but be thankful for that. At some point in the night, he could've sworn he heard someone enter the house, but he didn't let it wake him. He'd talk to the guy in the morning.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Helloooo! Welcome to the first chapter of _Something New_! I hope you'll be staying along for the ride!**

**Questions? Feel free to ask in the reviews or send me a Private Message (PM), and I'll include the answers in the next chapter's Author's Note. I'd be more than happy to answer any questions or concerns you have about the plot, characters, or whatever, so don't be shy! 8D  
**

**Happy reading!**


	2. Chicken Soup for the Conman's Soul

**_2._**

That had been the plan, anyway.

Nick cracked open his eyes, shifting around blearily as he reminded himself of his current predicament. He rolled onto his back, not entirely clear on which point in the night he'd moved to lie down, and rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes. The sound of footsteps startled him, and he froze instinctively. The footsteps stopped probably right next to him, and he heard a soft crack, like someone popping a joint.

Nick cleared his throat, but there was no responding remark from the person standing (or crouching, perhaps) next to him. He sat up, shaking the rest of the sleepiness from his mind, and looked up at the person beside him.

As he'd suspected, they were in a crouch, nails scraping gently against the floor. What he hadn't suspected was the length of those nails, or the grime and blotchy bruising on those hands, or the hood of a dark hoodie pulled up to shade most of the boy's face. A pair of light green eyes (they practically _glowed_ they were so bright) looked him up and down, head to toe. Nick flinched when one of those clawed hands reached up and scratched at the matted hair beneath the boy's hood, and shrank back instinctively when he suddenly stood up.

The boy cleared his throat, and Nick wasn't entirely sure if he was doing that because he needed to or if he was mocking the conman. Either way, the boy turned from his prey (because that was what Nick was to one of these freaks; just another hunted animal waiting to have its throat ripped out) and walked over to the stove that was apparently _not_ broken because it was turned on and the Hunter was poking at something that smelled dangerously delicious with what might've been a steak knife but also could've been a stick, it was just _that_ rusted. Nick stared, lost somewhere between nerve-wracked and confused. He couldn't find his voice, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. For all he knew, that _thing_ was going to start tearing off limbs to stick into his pot of soup _but god that smells so good almost like chicken noodle I am **so hungry**_.

His stomach made an audible sound, and he nearly punched it. The Hunter turned to glance at him, and he couldn't tell what kind of expression it was making because he couldn't see the top half of its face. Ugly brown hair was draped in front of its eyes, matted together with what looked like mud and possibly dried blood. His stomach lurched, but that might've also been hunger-related nausea.

The Hunter lifted a clawed hand, pointing at him directly and then brandishing at the couch. He didn't move. The thing frowned, but it wasn't a vicious snarl kind of frown – more like a questioning, perhaps thoughtful frown. Assuming that the thing was _thinking_ at all.

It glanced back at the pot, poking it again with the stick-that-might've-been-a-knife before turning off the stove (how was that thing still working it _looked_ like a _gas_ stove where in the hell would a Hunter find propane, no how would this thing even know what propane _is_) and looking back at Nick. The conman hadn't budged even a quarter of an inch. He didn't dare. He knew all about these things. Ellis practically attracted them. He was perfectly aware of what they were capable of, what they _did_ to non-infected persons.

Another frown that wasn't a snarl. He flinched again, shifted back when the boy crossed the room again, crouching down in front of him. They stared at each other for a long time. It pointed at him again, then towards the couch.

"W-…" Nick's throat chose that moment to start working again, "What? You want me to go sit on the couch?"

The Hunter stared at him for a long, long moment, and then nodded silently. The look on what he could see of its face reminded him of someone saying "_no shit Sherlock"_ and he didn't like it. _Don't you give me attitude you little_

The Hunter stood up, and stared down at him expectantly. Nick rose carefully, suddenly aware that his tension was making his head start to pound. He paused once he was standing next to the incredibly short Hunter who appeared to have kidnapped him, one arm seeking out the wall. The boy lifted a hand, looking like he was ready to catch him. But Nick steadied himself, and glared at the Hunter with all the strength he could muster around his throbbing temporal lobe.

For some reason, the thing nodded. What, was that approval? It walked away, heading back towards the stove, and Nick trailed several steps behind, veering towards the couch and sitting down. Despite looking like it'd seen the moodiest days of a cranky panther, it was reasonably comfortable, like a seat that had been worn in just enough. He stared hard at the Hunter as it scavenged around the cupboards, looking for something. Perhaps if he stared hard enough, he'd be able to see into its brain and figure out what the hell it was thinking.

After rummaging around for a few minutes, the boy pulled out a tired mug, tracing his fingers over a crack on the edge as if to determine if that crack would leak.

Nick watched, slightly dumbfounded, as the Hunter dipped the mug into the pot of whatever-the-hell-that-was, filled it up, produced a _slightly_ rusty spoon, and brought it over to him.

They stared at each other for a long, long time. Nick wasn't known for trusting people, let alone zombie-people who were usually known to have torn his throat out long before handing him a mug of soup. He tentatively received the mug, looking down at what he'd been given. It was definitely chicken noodle.

"Where the hell did you find a chicken," Nick grumbled. The Hunter tilted his head, before pointing to the counter. Nick spotted the empty can of Campbell's easily enough, and he frowned. Hunter's weren't supposed to know anything that didn't involve the proper method of killing people. At least, that had been his assumption. Was this common? Was it common for one of these freaks to kidnap a person and feed them Campbell's? Was he going to be let go? Or was this kid gonna stuff him like a Thanksgiving turkey, ready for slaughter?

He hadn't even realized that he'd pretty much inhaled the mug of soup until he heard the spoon clattering around the bottom of it. The Hunter was watching him carefully, and once again Nick found himself wishing he was telepathic.

"What the hell are you planning, anyway?" He snapped, ignoring the way the beast flinched at his tone. It didn't respond at first, and then Nick was sure it shrugged. His eyes narrow suspiciously as he placed the mug on the cracked coffee table in front of him and leaned back against the couch. He settled for glaring hatefully at the thing, hoping he was getting his point across.

…

The guy was definitely getting his point across.

He stepped away from the well-dressed man, wanting to give him some space before he started throwing things. The guy was glaring at him furiously, and quite frankly, he didn't know what to do. This wasn't what he'd been intending. This guy was supposed to be all thankful for being rescued. Hell, he made the bastard brunch! What did a kid have to do to get a little gratitude?

But, Dal supposed, he couldn't blame him. He hadn't looked at himself in a mirror in a long time, but he was sure his appearance hadn't gotten any better with the progression of the disease. Not to mention the countless scars that marred his body. Stupid Infected.

He wanted to whine and growl in frustration, but he held back. Growling in this situation was a bad idea. He also didn't want to leave and rip up a few Infected, because he couldn't be sure that the man wouldn't bolt the moment he was left alone. Dal turned away from the stranger, stepping over to a window and peering outside. There were a couple of diseased humans pacing around outside, a pair punching and kicking each other near the edge of the small clearing.

This cabin wasn't his; he didn't know whose it was. He'd found the place before he turned, and had turned it into something akin to "his own." In that amount of time, he'd shredded the couch and driven splinters into his fingers by clawing at the wood during the worst days of turning. He swallowed to wet his throat, lowering his head slightly and pressing his forehead to the boards that covered the cracked glass.

He heard movement behind him and turned around, seeing the suited man standing up and staring at the door. Primal instincts were creeping up around his mind, but he pushed them down. _No_ he wasn't going to do anything rash here. This was going to be a calm exchange.

"I need to go and catch up with the rest of my… group." The guy stated, looking uncertain. He probably had no idea whether or not Dal understood him. There was a lengthy pause.

Dal, knowing there wasn't another way for him to communicate, shook his head insistently. His companion (who was _not_ a captive) raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"You can't keep me here."

He put a hand on his hip and worked his body language until it clearly read; _Oh really?_

There was another pause. Dal watched the man take a few stabilizing breaths, scowling darkly and looking around him as if he thought a door might magically appear. Finally, he turned to Dal, determination in his eyes, and started towards the door.

"I'm leaving."

The primitive instincts came back violently, and all he could think of was how lonely he was, how he didn't want to be ignored anymore, and how he wouldn't let this guy go anywhere, _ever_.

He let out a snarl of rage and shot forward, stopping in front of the door and shrieking wordlessly, angrily, at his captive. The guy stopped in his tracks, froze for a moment in fear, but didn't back down. Dal wasn't sure if he was stupid for assuming that this Hunter wasn't going to hurt him, or if he had figured out that Dal didn't _want_ to hurt him. The guy continued forward, stopping less than two feet away.

"Get out of my way! I'm not staying here!" He snarled, and Dal could see the stress, he could _see_ how his carotid was pounding against his throat _that'd be great to rip open_, he saw the way his hands clenched and unclenched with nervousness _fear he's afraid **he's afraid**_, the strange wildness in his eyes as they darted around looking for an escape route _like a trapped animal just **waiting** to be devoured…_

Dal shrieked at him again, warning him to back off, but his didn't. He wouldn't back down. He was going to leave. He'd leave and Dal would be alone, again, like he had been since birth. Ignored. Unwanted.

Forgotten.

His chest was burning and aching, but that wasn't what he reacted to. No, he saw his captive shift, like he was about to make a mad dash for one of the boarded windows, and Dal snapped. He snapped because he didn't want to be abandoned again. He didn't want to be forgotten about. He wanted to seen. He wanted to be heard. It didn't matter to him anymore whether the attention was negative, hateful, cruel. It didn't matter if all he received were taunts and threats and insults, if someone would just _talk_ _to him._ If somebody, _anybody_ would say his name, let him know that he'd been thought about, even if it was only fleeting…

He threw himself at the man before he knew what he was doing, slamming him into one of the walls harshly. His fists balled up around the lapels of the once-white blazer, yanking forward on[DRR1] his _prisoner_ (because this person wasn't a companion, he would be a prisoner because he didn't want to be here and Dal didn't have the emotional fortitude to accept that there was just one more person in the world who didn't want him around) and staring into his gray-green eyes wildly, searching for something that might give him a spark of hope for his situation. But there was nothing. There was nothing because he was growling and gasping with anger and his heart was hammering, his pupils blown, and all he could see in his captive's eyes was _fear_.

_No, no, no I don't want this. I just want you to see me. See **me**. I want you to say my name sometimes, I don't care if it's because I've done something wrong or dangerous and you're just yelling at me to get my act together, just **please** see me look at me and see me and notice things about me even if they're bad things please I don't want to be ignored **I don't want to be forgotten…**_

His eyes were burning and stinging and he hated it but he didn't care. He didn't _care_ because this person was going to leave him alone, forget about him, ignore his existence, and he didn't want that. He didn't want that. He wouldn't allow it. There had to be a way to keep him here. There had to be. He couldn't let him leave.

_I bet if I broke his leg, he wouldn't be interested in going **anywhere**._

A primal urge rose up from the depths of his mind, gripping him tightly and murmuring suggestions of violent solutions in his ear. His murky black-brown hair hung in front of his eyes, shielding the mess of terrible thoughts roaming around his imagination. _I could break him. Easily. I could keep him from running away._

His hands stiffened, fingers slightly bent as they would be when he was gutting someone. His jaw tightened, and he let out a low growl. The man was frozen, eyes wide, lips parted as he pressed himself against the shredded walls as though he might be able to sink through them. Those gray-green eyes snapped shut as Dal raised a clawed hand, the other still gripping his **_prey_**, but he stopped. He stopped because he knew that it didn't matter, _it didn't **matter**_ if he broke the guy's legs, it didn't matter if he torn him up to the point that he _couldn't _run. It wouldn't change the fact that he didn't want Dal around.

_He doesn't want me around._

He lowered the hand he'd almost used to shred Nick's throat, heaving gasps and blinking away the tears threatening his composure. Why did it always have to be like this? Why didn't anyone want him around? Was this a punishment? Was he repenting for some stupid stunt he'd pulled in a past life?

_No, no, no_, he commandeered his thoughts back to the problem at hand. This guy wanted out. But Dal didn't think he could spend one more night alone, ignored, unwanted, forgotten…

He pulled back, releasing his captive. This was a stupid idea. If this guy got a gun, he'd kill Dal in an instant. No hesitation. No remorse. That was how the world worked now. He clenched his jaw, lowering his gaze for a moment. It wasn't like dying would be a horrible thing at this point.

He grabbed the man by the sleeve and dragged him to the door, which he threw open. He shoved the man outside, and watched as he turned around, confused. Dal gestured towards the swampy forestry around them, baring his teeth. The guy stared at him, but his jaw set and he turned away, storming off towards the trees. He wouldn't last two seconds without a gun, and Dal knew that.

But, he also knew that his captive knew that.

He started after him, his fists clenched. He caught up easily, and the guy heard him coming and turned, fist raised and eyes flashing with anger. Dal didn't even flinch at the threat of violence. It wasn't like this person would be able to take him out.

"Don't follow me, you fucking freak!" He snarled, "The last thing I need is a goddamn psycho-zombie stalking me!"

At that, Dal winced, but he didn't back down. Instead, he growled lowly. Then, to properly indicate what he was saying, he gestured towards his charge, towards the trees, and dragged his thumb across his throat. _You're dead if you go out there alone._

"You're a fucking… No, you know what? Fine!" He yelled, brandishing a finger at the Hunter, "The second I find a gun, you're _dead_."

There was a long pause, and Dal lowered his head. Obviously, the guy didn't want him around. But still, it hurt to hear it put into words. He took a shuddering, calming breath, and look at the guy again, defiance coloring every fiber of his being. Fine. So he was dead meat the second this person got his hand on a gun. So be it.

Death couldn't possibly be worse than this.

* * *

**A/N**

**Woo! Finally got the next chapter out!**

**As you can see, Dal has issues. Any questions about what issues he has will be answered as the story continues and flashbacks occur. Yes, Nick was kind of a bitch in this chapter, but I was trying to keep him in character. He'll warm up to Dal over the course of the next chapter or two. It's going to be tense for a while, though. Brace yourselves.**

**I'm not sure about the contents of the next chapter quite yet - I have basic idea of what I want to happen, but I need to solidify it. The next update might be a little longer of a wait, but let's hope that's not the case. Dal and Nick fought with me through the end of this chapter, but hopefully they'll be more willing to cooperate for the next chapter. Little shits.**


	3. You Can't Make Me Like You

**_3._**

A couple hours later, Nick was wondering. He felt that, while his initial reaction had been fairly exaggerated, it was completely justifiable. He could justify it further by thinking of reasonable comparisons; Batman waking up with the Joker treating his injuries; Al Qaeda offering to rebuild the Twin Towers; a serial murderer babysitting the child of the woman he'd just killed. Sure, they were pretty drastic comparisons, but it made him feel a little better about over-reacting.

But, had that been an over-reaction? What could be considered an exaggerated reaction, anymore? Was it reasonable or unreasonable to shoot a teammate in the foot after they accidentally shoot you? Was it a big deal or a little deal if you finally caught up to your wife of twenty-six years, only to find out that she'd been sleeping with your best friend in your absence? The whole situation was reminiscent of a stupid, poorly-made sitcom for teenagers.

Sure, the situation had a dramatic twist added to it, but really, what was the big deal?

Of course, it wasn't a question he really needed to ask or have answered. He knew what the big deal was. The big deal was that his new traveling companion was an Infected teenager. The big deal was that it hadn't killed him.

_Yet_. He made sure to remind his brain that he had no reason to trust that this thing wouldn't suddenly turn on him. Wasn't that how rabies worked? Something about mood swings and hallucinations, right? It was perfectly sane for him to imagine that this Hunter might suddenly start seeing a giant, juicy Nick-steak and tear into him. Right?

It'd been two hours since they'd left. It'd been probably twelve hours since he had initially awakened in that cabin after the crash. The Hunter still hadn't killed him, even in that long amount of time. The Infected weren't supposed to be relatively stable individuals. Nick hadn't seen any sign of the anger the creature had exhibited towards him back at the cabin. There hadn't been any inconsistencies with its behavior. It just walked with him, in silence, bright green eyes darting around the area.

"This sucks," he informed the trees around him. It was probable that the stupid Hunter didn't even understand him. It turned towards him at the sound of his voice, but didn't make any offer of a reply.

_No, that's not right,_ he thought, part of him disappointed and a little irritated at the revelation, _he was perfectly responsive and engaged in "conversation" earlier. He **does** understand me._

That meant that he probably couldn't get away with treating the kid like a dog and teaching him tricks like "fetch" and "kill that zombie." In fact, if he was even going to expect the brat to not leave him for dead in the face of a horde, he'd need to find a way to make a peace offering. This wasn't going to work in his favor if he didn't have the kid on his side. Sure, it seemed fairly bent on following him around, but that didn't necessarily mean that it'd protect him or watch out for him.

He frowned slightly, suddenly feeling like he was playing catch with a time bomb. He needed to play his cards right. He was a conman – a gambler. He'd played Russian Roulette, he'd had poker tournaments with the mafia, he'd lied and cheated and stolen his way to get whatever he wanted. He'd been playing with fire since he was eight, and he'd never been caught in a con.

For some reason, the idea that he might get to play one last con brought a brightness and shine to his outlook on life. He'd always loved the feeling, the _rush_ of danger and uncertainty. He could be confident, but he could never be _sure_.

He could make this work. This stupid kid wouldn't know the difference between being helpful and being used. He could do this with his eyes closed and his hand tied behind his back.

This would work _perfectly_. He just needed to act; to pretend that he was warming up to the Hunter, that he'd begun to trust it. It was indeed a fine line to walk, but he could do it. It wouldn't be hard. He'd been married twice on false pretenses. This would be a cakewalk.

He glanced over at the Hunter, who didn't look up. He felt rather like a drug dealer at a playground. But it was a dog-eat-dog world, and if he was going to survive, he needed to use every tool in his possession. This was something he needed to do, that was all.

He looked ahead again, his jaw set and his eyes straying to the Hunter that seemed somewhat desperate to keep him around. Nick had to forcibly remind himself that it didn't matter if the kid was twelve or twenty. It didn't matter what kind of life he'd led up until now. Everyone had their skeletons.

_It's survival_, he told himself. _There's no room for morality in survival._

…

This over-dressed bastard obviously thought he was an idiot.

Honestly, he couldn't really blame anyone for making such a deduction. It wasn't like he could talk to prove any theories wrong. The only thing he'd proven himself able to say was the first half of his given name – "Dal."

However, with his senses apparently enhanced, little changes and ticks didn't escape his knowledge. His companion had a concussion, likely sustained before his fall. He'd been unconscious when Dal had caught him, and the teenager hadn't missed the blood that had congealed amongst his companion's black hair.

The guy was trying to hide his headache and nausea, but he wasn't succeeding. Every so often, in increasingly frequent intervals, he'd press his palm into his gut and grimace, or run a hand through his hair. He had considered suggesting they stop, but Dal hadn't yet been able to figure out a pantomime to explain that particular thought.

The man beside him sighed agitatedly. Dal was considering attributing the temper to the concussion, but he didn't know this person well enough to make that deduction. For all he knew, this guy was just an asshole by nature.

He glanced over at the man when he cleared his throat, looking a little green, "Do you even know where we're going?" His voice was strained, words spoken around a tense jaw. He was trying not to throw up. Dal could imagine he would probably lose that battle. The Campbell's had probably been a bad idea.

Dal nodded in reply to his question, turning his attention back to the landscape in front of them, steering his thoughts away from dangerously hostile sarcasm. It was easy to get angry anymore, though he wasn't sure if just a newfound function of his personality or not.

He stopped when he noted that the second set of footsteps had disappeared from his hearing and turned around. His nauseous traveling partner was bracing himself on a tree, eyes slightly wide and fist digging into his gut. His grey-green eyes slowly closed, his posture relaxing slightly.

He looked like he was ready to start walking again, but Dal stepped over to him and leaned up against a nearby tree. The guy needed a break – that much was clear. He sank into a crouch, staring at the man expectantly. Slowly, the man moved to sit down on the forest floor, one hand still pressed against his stomach. That all by itself was a little weird. Either his companion was feeling worse than he was letting on, or he had decided that arguing was a pointless exercise. The prospect that this guy could be feeling _worse_ was a little disturbing. His face was pale and covered in a sheen layer of sweat. The physical exertion wasn't good for him.

Dal had, in his short time as a reckless fool, sustained three different concussions of varying degrees. The second had been the worst. He'd been laid up in bed for days, more or less unable to move and definitely not interested in trying.

The point was that Dal knew all about head injuries – he'd done his research. He knew that it was dangerous to be traveling with a head injury when there were crazies running around and the risk of a second injury was high. If he thought he could talk the guy into it, he'd be more than willing to carrying his companion and take to the trees. It'd be safer up there, and it'd be faster too. Unfortunately, there just weren't enough crude hand gestures at his disposal.

He considered for a brief moment the option of simply picking the guy up against his will and taking to the trees anyway.

"How do you know where we're going?" Dal looked up at the sound of the man's voice, blinking past his hair. The man was staring at him, still looking fairly ill. He was probably trying to distract himself from the discomfort. The guy was lucky that there was a person around who was willing and able to tend to him while he was hurt and otherwise unwell.

Dal reached up and tapped his nose to indicate that he could still smell the hot metal and gasoline from the helicopter. It'd crashed not much farther from their current location, and had made an incredible racket and stench in the process. If he had to guess, there were probably going to be a little more than a few crazies wandering around the crash site.

The man didn't say anything else. Dal cleared his throat, working his jaw carefully as he pointed to himself.

"Da-…al." He managed, throat croaking around the syllables. He frowned slightly and tried again, "Dal."

The guy stared at him for a long moment, looking somewhere between disbelieving and confused.

"Dal?" He repeated, "What's…? Is that your name?"

At least he'd figured it out quickly. That meant good things for his cognitive function. Dal nodded in response, offering a slight smile of approval.

"I'm Nick." Was the relatively quiet, unhappy reply. Dal nodded, committing it to memory. They lapsed into silence once again.

"How long are we going to sit here?"

Dal looked up at him, thoughtful. The color was starting to return to his face, and overall he looked like he felt better. Dal shrugged, gesturing towards Nick and then to the wooded area around them. Nick stared for a long moment, obviously taking the time to process what, exactly, Dal was trying to say to him.

Slowly, the man stood up. Dal followed suit, glancing around and sniffing the air. No signs of life. To be honest, he was a little surprised that they hadn't been attacked while they'd been sitting there. But, he supposed, not every day could be a Monday.

…

Dal had led them through a particularly decimated portion of forest, keeping a careful eye on him the entire time. They'd done no more than exchange brief pleasantries and find civility amongst themselves. He reminded himself endlessly that this was what his intention were; that it was a _good_ thing that Dal seemed to be warming up to him rather quickly. He hated the idea that he was being looked after by this _freak_, but it was convenient to him and that was all that really mattered. But even though he reminded himself of that, he couldn't help but wonder too much about the kid. Why was he so eager to have company? Why was did he seem like it didn't matter to him that Nick treat him terribly? What kind of nonsense went through this brat's head?

He knew better than to let those thoughts corrupt, though. Wondering turned into caring faster than anyone could ever be prepared for. He disciplined his thoughts down a carefully constructed path made up of how much he hated his situation and why he hated Hunters in the first place. It was those kinds of reminders that kept him away from the dangerous land of curiosity and giving a damn.

For example, he told himself to think about how much it was pissing him off that Dal seemed too keen to watch out for him. The Hunter had one eye on him at all times, it seemed, like he was worried about something. Nick had gone through his nauseous episode earlier, sure, but other than that he was fine. His head hurt, but he'd also smashed it into a helicopter less than a day ago. Having a residual ache after a blow like _that_ was normal. The actual damage wasn't even that bad. He had a nice cut on the back of his head, and probably a bump and bruise.

He'd been clocked before. Sure, he'd never taken a baseball bat to the skull or anything, but it wasn't like he'd never been hit upside the head before either. It wasn't nearly as bad as this Hunter seemed to be making it out to be.

Dal led him over to a smashed bit of foliage and trees, crouching down and peering through and over the broken branches. He beckoned for Nick to crouch down and join him, his movements deliberate. Clearly, they were hiding. The conman carefully crawled over to the Hunter, peeking through the trees. There were seven Infected milling around the chopper – much less than he'd been expecting. Dal was sniffing the air, eyes scanning the area. Nick couldn't pick up on the stench of a Boomer or a Smoker, so he had no idea what Dal was seemingly freaking out about.

He made to move slightly, but Dal's hand shot out and grabbed his arm, squeezing tightly to keep him still. He froze, a lump moving into his throat. Something was wrong. He wasn't so stupid that he'd jump to anger at the contact, nor was he blind enough to miss that something was pushing Dal dangerously close to fight or flight mode. Whatever the Hunter was picking up on, it wasn't good news.

Nick just wished that he knew what the Hunter was hearing, or smelling, or seeing so he could help make a judgment call, or respond appropriately to any suggestions that Hunter might throw his way. He felt the Hunter shift slightly beside him, and adjusted himself silently when he felt the kid gently trying to tug him closer.

They stayed like that, in complete silence and hidden by the foliage around them, for probably ten minutes before Dal started to relax a bit. Nick softly let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, looking at the Hunter again. Dal's expression was concentrated, eyes narrowed and darting around the area suspiciously, nose twitching as he took in every scent he could.

Finally, Dal shifted forward, pulling Nick with him. The conman allowed himself to be led, fully understanding that there was something more dangerous than a few Infected in area. They were going to have to move through the area pretty fast. Dal seemed to be making calculations as he looked up and around the area, likely searching for route that would take them farthest from the bigger threat without slowing them down. Judging solely by the scowl on his face, he seemed to be coming up blank.

Somewhere in the back of his head, there was room for the conman to feel a certain amount of contempt at the situation. He was, without a doubt, relying on this Hunter's skills to keep him safe. He couldn't take care of himself in this situation. He couldn't handle things on his own, like he was so used to do. He _had_ to rely on Dal. He didn't know how well this kid knew the area, or if he was any kind of a tracker, or _anything_ about him. Sure, they'd found the helicopter, but that one was easy. Finding his group was another story.

Dal tugged him to the right and started moving. Nick followed after him, making sure to stay low to the ground. They crept around the smashed up area of the forestry, undetected by the Infected. Nick was slightly impressed with how quiet the two of them could be. Normally, he and the other three seemed to storm through areas like a pack of elephants. Then again, they were also usually armed with assault rifles and machetes.

It took probably ten minutes of crawling around the forest floor and hiding, but they made it to the other side of the helicopter-made clearing, and crept up behind the chopper itself to stay hidden. The Infected hadn't yet noticed their presence, and Nick had to thank his lucky stars for that one. He made his way up to the chopper, peering inside. Dal was sniffing around the remaining artifacts – a sleeping bag that had been buckled down, and what looked like Ellis' hat. _That_ would be perfect to help with tracking – assuming for a moment that Dal was as much of a bloodhound as he had portrayed himself to be. He picked it up and handed it to the kid, who pocketed it in silence and without question. Nick had hoped he might find a pistol, or even a knife amongst the mess of twisted metal, but he had no such luck.

He heard a loud snarl, and his head shot up, eyes widening at the Infected man running towards them, four others right behind him. Nick stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Dal stepped in front of him, growling lowly, but the Infected didn't back off.

To be honest with himself, Nick had been expected a pounce-and-shred sort of situation, but that wasn't what he saw. Dal reared back a fist and socked one of them in the face, the force of the blow smashing the skull into the metal around them. The Hunter grabbed a fistful of another woman's hair and drove his knee into her face, crushing bone. The other three fell in similar fashions, all killed or otherwise taken out in a single hit.

That particularly style of movement reminded Nick of the kind of fighting he used to partake in – street brawls, bar fights, and the like. Had he done a lot of fighting in his life? Was he a regular brawler or just a punk who liked to start shit? Did he _fight_ or did he just get the hell beaten out of him by the bigger kids? Had he been bullied, or had he done the bullying? Did his parents beat him, or was it a sibling who had taught him to fend for himself?

_Not that it **matters**_,he viciously reminded himself. The conman stood up slowly, ignoring the pulsing headache that was spreading through his skull. He took a moment to blink the vertigo out of his vision before turning his gaze on Dal. The Hunter was staring at him, looking worried, and Nick wanted to slap the concern off his face.

The Hunter pointed to his left, poking at the hat in his pocket to indicate who he was referring to. Nick scowled at him, but it was mainly the pain that was putting him in a foul mood. He didn't like hurting, but he supposed that was true for most people. His straying thoughts were also starting to bother him. Why was it so hard to keep himself in the "look out for number one" mindset anymore? His brain felt like it'd been scrambled around and replaced with something that was _way_ too friendly for his lifestyle. He hated it.

"How can you be sure they went-… no, why the hell should I even trust you? I mean, sure you found the chopper, but you could be stringing me along just so I'd keep you company for all I know." The words were tumbling out of his mouth in a mixture of paranoia and disbelief. How could this kid _possibly_ trust him so much? Was this trust, or was it just plain desperation? Why would anyone ever allow someone like _Nick_ into their life without some kind of bargaining chip or contract?

Dal had rescued him twice now, and seemed fully intent on looking out for him without expecting anything in return and it was _not normal_. In his head, it was_ wrong_. People were supposed to look out for themselves. That was just what people did. They looked out for number one and used others to further their own goals. That was natural. That was just how the world worked.

So why…?

The Hunter was staring at him, confused. Nick could imagine the kinds of things he was thinking – _why wouldn't you trust me? What have I done to prove I'm not trustworthy?_ They didn't say anything to each other for a long time, just watched each other uncertainly, both wondering what the other was thinking. Nick was wracking his brain for a reason, a plausible _reason_ for a person to behave like this towards _him_, but he couldn't think of anything.

Finally, Dal shrugged. It was such a simple, non-committal reply, but it spoke volumes. The kid knew that Nick had a point, and he knew there was no reason he could give to explain himself. There wasn't a reason for Nick to trust him. But, it also told him that he'd been wrong about what Dal was thinking. The kid didn't think much differently from Nick, it seemed. Or maybe he thought in a completely different way, but they both came to similar conclusions in the end.

"Fine, I'll… go with it for now," Nick finally conceded, frowning deeply at his decision, "Lead the way."

Dal's face split into a goofy, obnoxious grin. He turned and started walking, glancing over his shoulder briefly to make sure Nick was following him. The conman sighed, hoping he wouldn't regret his decision. Maybe he wouldn't kill Dal the moment he found a gun. The kid was useful and…

Nick didn't like him, but Dal _was_ entertaining.

* * *

**A/N**

**HEY GUYS. Lol, sorry for dying for a while there. But look, I'm posting a new chapter! :'D**

**As you can see, Nick is accidentally warming up to Dal a little bit here. It's really hard to write these two sometimes. And I don't want to drag out the hostility between them, but I also don't want to rush things. Its hard. They still don't quite love each other so I'm all worried that people will get tired of reading them and leave. ;-; Next chapter (whenever I get around to it) should be a little friendlier. I just need to decide what the eff is gonna happen in it loooool.  
**


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